


Was I Just Another One

by Midnightminx90



Series: rdr2 [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Lives, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29902257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnightminx90/pseuds/Midnightminx90
Summary: “What exactly are you saying Charles? That the reason he wasn’t there was because he…”“Because he survived.”John grabs the bottle of whiskey, downing too much all at once, choking and coughing.“No. If he did, he would have sent word.”“How? Through the old channels? A letter to Tacitus Killgore? John, doing that would mean Dutch or Micah would know. Or maybe no one. That way stopped being safe even before things ended.”“Sadie found me.”“She did, because she listened. Knew what to look for. Look, I ain’t saying it’s possible he’s still alive, not with how sick he was. But as far as I can tell, death did not find him on that mountain.”
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Martson/John Marston (Mentioned), Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan (Former)
Series: rdr2 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198562
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Was I Just Another One

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song by the same name by Gregory Alan Isokov
> 
> When I started writing today, I had 357 words. The rest was written in one sitting

The night is nice, warm even hours after the sun has set.  
  
Above, the stars are out, the sickle moon dull enough that John’s eyes could count every star should he wish to.   
  
“I went back there,” Charles says, breaking the silence. “To bury him. Arthur. Knew of a place not too far away where he’d be able to see the sunset.”   
  
“Just like he wanted,” John says, taking a sip of his whiskey-laced coffee. He probably shouldn’t have been so heavy on the whiskey, not when he needs to stay awake to keep watch. There’s a pleasant buzz and warmth settling in him already. “I’m sure he’d thank you if he could.”   
  
Saying _his_ name, even all these years later, is still something John can’t bring himself to do. Even more so as he hadn’t expected for him to be brought up.   
  
“He wasn’t there.”   
  
“What?” John asks, wondering if he’s drunk from even two sips. “What do you mean he wasn’t there?”   
  
“I went to the hill you climbed. There were tracks, signs of fighting, but Arthur wasn’t there.”   
  
“Them Pinkertons must have taken him then, to show their bosses.”   
  
“That’s just it. I kept an ear out, checked every newspaper I could find. There was no mention of him, and knowing how much those men wanted Dutch’s gang to no longer exist… You know they would have said so, would have given proof he was dead.”   
  
“What exactly are you saying Charles? That the reason he wasn’t there was because he…”   
  
“Because he survived.”   
  
John grabs the bottle of whiskey, downing too much all at once, choking and coughing.   
  
“No. If he did, he would have sent word.”   
  
“How? Through the old channels? A letter to Tacitus Killgore? John, doing that would mean Dutch or Micah would know. Or maybe no one. That way stopped being safe even before things ended.”   
  
“Sadie found me.”   
  
“She did, because she listened. Knew what to look for. Look, I ain’t saying it’s possible he’s still alive, not with how sick he was. But as far as I can tell, death did not find him on that mountain.”   
  
\---  
  
Useless to think Arthur’s still alive, with how sick he was at the end. John might be stupid, he’s been told so enough times in his life, but even he knows there’s no cure for tuberculosis.   
  
Maybe Arthur made it down, died another place shortly after. That’s all. Which is why John doesn’t mention any of this to Sadie when they got to Rhodes for a bounty.   
  
After, when she’s left, John sets up for the night in the shack he’d once shared with Arthur. Why he does, knowing the memories that place holds, he doesn’t know, but it’s the first place his mind goes to, not wanting to linger in town for fear of someone remembering him.   
  
Somehow, the shack is still standing, and offers some shelter. Yet it still looks like just a strong gust of wind will knock it over, and John’s glad he saw no signs of any storms on the ride there.   
  
He tries to fall asleep early, preparing for the long ride back to the farm, his _own_ farm, but it eludes him.   
  
It’s as though there are ghosts here, imprints of that one night all those years ago, when it seemed they could make this work somehow.   
  
So he lights a candle and takes out Arthur’s journal, unopened still by his hands. The years have not made it easier, and while there have been times John’s been curious about the contents, it’s always felt too private to look.   
  
But here, now, almost seeing ghosts and with the words Charles spoke ringing in his mind, he might as well.   
  
Albert Mason. Charlotte Balfour. Hamish Sinclair. Charles Châtenay.   
  
There are other names too, of people Arthur met and helped, neither of them anyone John knows. Mr. Black and Mr. White rings a bell, wanted posters throughout Rhodes, but none he ever met or Arthur ever talked about.   
  
He doubts any of them will know anything of what happened after the events on the mountains, but John hopes it will bring closure.   
  
No mentions of his own name.   
  
It takes a long time, but he falls asleep in the end, Arthur’s journal clutched in his hands.   
  
\---   
  
Charles Châtenay is a dead end.   
  
The man apparently used to have an exhibition in Saint Denis, and left shortly thereafter, due to certain men being unhappy about seeing naked portraits of their wives on display.   
  
Albert Mason? The photographer? Oh yes, he’d had an exhibition there at the same time, but it’s been years since. What happened to the photographs? Oh, he came one day and brought them with him, saying the personal value was worth too much to sell.   
  
\---   
  
John leaves for O’Creagh’s Run next, finding Hamish, but the man had not heard anything of or from Arthur since the day they caught the Tyrant.   
  
“What’s the tyrant?” John asks, sipping the offered coffee on the porch.   
  
“Here, I’ll show ya,” Hamish says, getting up and leading John inside. He points to a giant fish hanging over the mantle of the fireplace. “That’s the one. Dragged me into the lake it did, trying to get me at last. Arthur got me out and into the boat, then caught the bastard.”   
  
“He always said he wasn’t much of a fisherman,” John says.   
  
“Yeah, well, wasn’t much truth to that. Hey, while you’re here, would you mind helping me out with a problem? Turns out the Tyrant wasn’t the only one out to get me, cause there’s this shewolf been stalking the place, getting real close.”   
  
“Sure, I could do that.”   
  
It’s not easy, but they manage in the end. Somehow they both survive, as do their horses.   
  
“If you wanna stay a couple days, you’re welcome to it for the help you gave me. Any friend of Arthur’s a friend of mine.”   
  
“Thank you Hamish, I might just do that.”   
  
They share stories of Arthur while John’s there, of the shenanigans they got up to and the beasts they hunted. Of how Arthur always said he wasn’t a good man, and yet got out of his way to help strangers.   
  
A couple days later, they end up on another hunt.   
  
This one ends badly for both of them.   
  
Hamish gets thrown, then gored by a giant boar. In trying to save him, the beast does the same to John’s horse, swerving at the last moment to avoid the bullets from John’s guns, injuring her too.   
  
In the end, the beast is dead, same as the Tyrant and the wolves.   
  
He kneels next to his horse, much like Arthur had done that last night, thanking her for her help. A bullet ensures a quick death.   
  
John sinks to his knees next to Hamish, taking his hand in his own.   
  
“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”   
  
“It’s alright, I knew one of them was gonna get me in the end. Take Buell for me, would ya? I don’t want the mean bastard to be alone.”   
  
“I will. Thank you, Hamish.”   
  
“And John? I swore I wasn’t gonna say anything to anyone, but he’s alive. Arthur’s alive.”   
  
The breath leaves Hamish for the last time, and John doesn’t know what to feel. Here, at last, is someone who knew what happened to Arthur, maybe even where to find him, and he’s gone before John can learn more.   
  
\---   
  
John buries Hamish next to his cottage, a last act of kindness for the man and for the truth about Arthur.   
  
\---   
  
He heads for Roanoke and Willard’s Rest next, curious to see if Charlotte survived thanks to Arthur’s help in learning how to shoot.   
  
Back when John had joined the van der Linde gang, Arthur had helped him learn, so he knows firsthand how good a teacher Arthur is.   
  
Before he can reach the place, night falls and a heavy rain begins to fall. John finds shelter in a building by the tracks, a shack with missing planks in the walls, but it’s better than just his tent outside and it saves him the time it takes to set it up.   
  
John huddles up in a blanket, trying to find a partly dry spot at least.   
  
At some point, he even falls asleep, and his dreams are filled with Artthur, Arthur, Arthur.   
  
\---   
  
He sets out at the first signs of the dawn, watching the early morning sunrays play across the waterfall that signals the locations.   
  
It’s weird being back here again, so close to the place things finally unravelled and then the event that put him into contact with Sadie again.   
  
He slows Buell down as they exit through the trees across the river and the grave of Charlotte’s husband comes into view, exactly like Arthur wrote. They ascend the hill, and John spots a woman that can be none other than Charlotte Balfour.   
  
John dismounts, holding his hands up to show he’s unarmed.   
  
“Excuse me, mam?”   
  
He doesn’t know where she pulled her gun from, but he’s staring down the barrel of it into kind and cautious eyes.   
  
“John Marston.” She says, lowering her gun. “Should have known you’d turn up sooner or later. I told him as much.”   
  
“He’s alive then.”   
  
“You don’t sound surprised. I wonder why.”   
  
It doesn’t sound like she doesn, but John answers anyway.   
  
“Hamish Sinclair. I helped him out, and he told me in return.”   
  
“I should have known he would say something. Well, the next time I see him I will…”   
  
“He’s dead. Gored by a giant boar. They were his last words.”   
  
Charlotte looks past him, only now seeming to recognise his horse.   
  
“You better be telling the truth. We don’t take kindly to people who steal horses around here.”   
  
“Honest to God.”   
  
Charlotte’s hand goes into her pocket, then she opens it, palm up, and Buell walks up to her, nibbling at the sugar cube, then at her hat, as though greeting an old friend.   
  
“He here, then?”   
  
“Yes. Though I do not know if he wants to see you. Not after everything he did to make sure you lived.”   
  
“He told you, then, of us?”   
  
“He told _us_ , yes. If he permits it, I’ll let you talk. But be careful, Mr. Marston. Arthur is still sick, and as you can imagine, he has not gotten better over the years. He needs rest and peace and quiet. Do not upset him, because if you do, I am not the only one who won’t hesitate to shoot you if we deem you too much of a risk for his life.”   
  
John nods.   
  
“Give me a moment to let him know and ask him then, and if he says no, then you will leave us in peace.”   
  
“No need, Charlotte.” The familiar voice makes John ache, and he looks up to meet the eyes of Arthur Morgan. “I’ll talk to him.”   
  
His old friend, old lover, is standing up, supported by an unfamiliar man, arms circling each other’s waists in a way that seems achingly familiar and intimate.   
  
John wastes no time, stalking into the house after the two other men, watching as Arthur is lowered into a wheelchair.   
  
“Are you sure?” the stranger asks Arthur, kneeling at his side, hand on Arthur’s.   
  
“Yes, it’s fine Al, you don’t have to worry.”   
  
Al, Albert Mason, John suspects, seeing the camera off to the side and photographs lining the walls, straightens and steps away.   
  
“Yeah, _Al_ , don’t worry.” John says, spitting the name out as though it’s venom. Arthur and I are just gonna _talk_ .”   
  
“Oh dear,” the photographer says. “I think I’ll leave you to talk. See if Charlotte needs help in the garden.” The man moves closer to Arthur first, leaning in as though to kiss him, but changes his mind at the last second, fleeing out the door before John can say anything else.   
  
“Why didn’t you reach out?” John asks, voice harsh, watching as Arthur wilts in front of him, something he never thought possible. “When Charles told me he thought you’d survived, I figured he was crazy.”   
  
“I wasn’t supposed to live,” Arthur starts. “We said goodbye on that mountain and I stayed so you could live and go be with your woman and son. One of us had to make it out and I knew it wasn’t gonna be me.”   
  
“That still don’t explain…”   
  
“Remember that night? When we…”   
  
“When I said I loved you and you fucked me in that shed?”   
  
Arthur looks away at those words, out the window and the man and woman outside.   
  
“When I told you why I was mad at you. Why I gave you shit. Cause you had what I lost. You still do, I recon. Yeah, I heard you passed through, heard you shot a man. And you were still with them then. You were so close and I found out after. But I still wouldn’t have told any of ya. Cause I made my choice, John, when we were at that mountain. My choice was to get you outta there so you could live your life in a way I never could.”   
  
“What about my choice in all of this, huh? You say you made your choice but you sure as fuck never gave me a choice.”   
  
Arthur looks at him again.   
  
“And what choice would you have made Marston? Or is it Milton these days? Would you have let Abigail and Jack go, made them take care of themselves and try and make it on their own, so you could run away with me? Or try to drag me along with you? You knew I was doomed, and I would have doomed all of you had I gone with you.”   
  
“How’d you end up here then?” John asks, knowing Arhur’s right but unwilling to admit it.   
  
“Save someone enough times, and they’ll save you back when you most need it,” Arthur answers, eyes once again straying to the window.   
  
“The widow? Mrs. Balfour?”   
  
“It was Al, at first. Then Charlotte too. Hamish helped us all. I saved him from a coyote and wolves and gators, from falling off of a cliff. I saved her from dying of starvation or being killed by that perv who lurked here. I saved Hamish from getting eaten by a giant fish of all things. Al found me, don’t ask how. Then he brought me here, and the two of them helped me survive. Don’t quite know how, but here I am.”   
  
“You love him,” John notes, surprising even himself. “Albert Mason. Al.”   
  
“I love them both,” Arthur says, eyes locked on Albert, “in different ways. But yes, I love him. She’s like a sister to us both, and we’ve made a family here, odd as it may be.”   
  
“And me?” John asks. “Was I just another one? Mary too?”   
  
The silence hangs heavy in the air for a long time, and John can hear the two people outside laughing.   
  
“It was different,” Arthur says at last. “What we had. I don’t know if we could have made it work, John. Before that night outside of Rhodes, before our confessions, I didn’t even understand my own feelings. And it took a long time to process, with everything that happened after. I said I helped Sadie get you outta prison ‘cause of Abigail and Jack, but I was selfish, too, needin’ you back. At one point I realised that no matter what was gonna happen, it wouldn’t work. I was sick, I knew, but then the doc told me what it was and I knew I was doomed. Like I said, I couldn't bring anyone down with me, especially you. Well, except for Micah but that didn’t work.”   
  
Arthur begins coughing, then, and it only takes the shortest of moments before Albert is by his side, hand in Arthur’s and a glass of water in his other, a handkerchief at the ready. The white fabric turns red in seconds.   
  
“Don’t suppose the bastard’s dead?” Arthur asks soon as he’s able.   
  
“No. Sadie said she’s heard of someone who sounds like him. She’s keeping an ear out.”   
  
“Doing good then, is she?”   
  
“Bounty hunter, if you can believe it.”   
  
“And you? You mentioned Charles too?”   
  
“I’m okay. Gone straight, so to speak, if you can believe it. Bought a farm outside Blackwater, for Abigail and the boy’s sake. Named Beecher’s Hope. Uncle’s there, and Charles. We’ve built a house, gonna add a barn too.”   
  
“Where’d you get the money for that then? Robbed a bank or something?”   
  
“No. Borrowed it from the bank. Uncle thought I was crazy.”   
  
Arthur laughs then, and while John sees Albert light up at the sound, there’s obvious worry in his eyes too. The laugh turns into a cough, but lighter this time, not as deep and harsh and without any blood.   
  
“Why are you here, John?”   
  
“Charles said he went back to bury you. Said you weren’t there and even he couldn’t find tracks that said what happened and where you went. I didn’t believe him, it was crazy talk, wishful thinkin’ at best, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, trying to figure out what could’a happened after, if the Pinkertons had taken you but never said, or if the Murfree got you, or Micah or Dutch or anyone. So I went through your journal. Some names stuck out, based on how close they were to Butcher’s Creek.”   
  
“But you didn’t believe it until Hamish told you.”   
  
“Even then I didn’t, but I had to know for sure. I couldn’t go all the way back to Blackwater without knowing, not when I was this close.”   
  
“And now that you know? What will you do?”   
  
“I don’t know!” John shouts. “I wasn’t thinking I’d find you alive out here, happy and…”   
  
“And with people I love. No, I suppose you didn’t. But you still love them, don’t you? Abigail and the kid? Otherwise you wouldn’t idebt yourself to make her happy.”   
  
“I do.”   
  
“Then take my advice, John. Go back to your ranch. Make that place into a home for you and the pair of them. Hell, even for Uncle. And Charles and Sadie and whoever else you’ve come across of the old gang. I didn’t save your ass to make you give it all up. You have a new life, now, so do what I did and use that second chance to make a life and home and be reborn. Don’t let it take something like this,” Arthur waves the bloody piece of cloth around, “to make you realise what’s important. Don’t be a fool anymore. For my sake. Or theirs, or your own. It don’t matter, just do it, please.”   
  
“Are you happy here, then?”   
  
“Yes. And at peace, which is something I never thought I’d have.We’ve made it a good thing out here, away from everything. Charlotte’s finally been writing, like she wants to, and Al has plenty to photograph. No demands for food or supplies or cash or other stuff for the camp funds. No ‘one more plan’ or askin’ for time and trust or whatever the hell it was he used to say.”   
  
John manages to chuckle.   
  
“‘Time and money and faith’. Yeah, can’t say I miss them shouting matches between Dutch and Miss O’Shea. Or Miss Grimshaw and the girls. Uncle’s not too bad, really. Sure, he complains about his lumbago, saying he can’t help, but… It’s good to have his company even so. Beats most everyone else in camp.”   
  
“And Abigail?”   
  
“It’s… complicated. I wanted to set up the house first, before contacting her and the boy to come down there.”   
  
“Left you, did she?”   
  
“Why’s no one ever surprised at that?”   
  
“What you do this time then?”   
  
“Defended the ranch we was living and working on. She wants me to stop acting like a, what did she say again? ‘A goddamn hero from a storybook’ or some sorts.”   
  
“Her readin’ gettting better then?”   
  
“Jack reads for her. He don’t fancy the old western stuff no more, now it’s about Guinevere and Lancelot and…”   
  
“And King Arthur,” Albert finishes for him, then looks ashamed for getting involved. “Sorry.”   
  
“Yeah. And... It’s okay.”   
  
“There was another ranch, causing the one I worked on trouble, threatening them and stealing cattle, stuff like that. Then Jack and I ran into some fellers, one of them was the brother of the guy I shot up here, and I had to kill them. Jack… he took that quite hard and I guess it was the last straw for Abigail. They left few months back and I ain’t seen them since.”   
  
“So now you’re making a ranch to get her back, that it?”   
  
“Jack read about the place in the paper when he was reading it to her, and she wants a place of her own, where we can settle down. Figured it was the best way, and I learned stuff, I did, working at Pronghorn. Mr. Geddes, the owner, he’s a cousin of one of the bankers in Blackwater, and his word got me the loan.”   
  
“I’m happy for you John, for what it’s worth.”   
  
“Likewise,” John says, and it’s easier than he thought it would be. “Sorry I yelled at you.”   
  
“Well, I would’ve yelled at you too if things were the other way around. And, had things been different, if I hadn’t listened to Herr Straus and done his bidding, if I hadn’t beaten up Mr. Downes and gotten sick…”   
  
“Then you wouldn’t have realised what’s important,” John says, looking at Albert. “Sure, you’ve always been a grumpy bastard, but you helped folks even before you got ill. Don’t try to lie, I’ve read your journal. And I remember what the gang used to be like, way back. You’re a good man, sickness or not, and while you made bad choices, we all did, and you made the choice to do better, which is better than what most of the others did.”   
  
“You ain’t as stupid as you look,” Arthur says, but there’s no meanness to it, a smile on his lips.   
  
“Well, a kind man once told me he never knew none but me who got smarter after losing half of his brain.”   
  
It’s a wild thing, the grin on Arthur’s face, feral and joyful all at once.   
  
“I gave you a lot of shit,” Arthur admits.   
  
“Well, I deserved a lot of it.”   
  
“Some of it, sure, but… The others accepted you back quick, and I should’ve too. I never stopped shitting on you, even after… That night.”   
  
“You had your reasons. It’s fine though, Arthur. It’s all in the past. Our old lives. We’ve both started anew.”   
  
“Still friends, despite everything?”   
  
“Yeah. Brothers in arms, though neither of us do that no more.”   
  
“So, what will you tell Charles? Or Uncle or Sadie or Abigail and Jack? About me.”   
  
“It’s not my choice, is it? Saying you died wouldn’t be a lie, not really, when we’re both new people now.”   
  
“I guess you’re right. But if you want to, I wouldn’t mind them knowing. Knowing some of us made it out alive ain’t no small feat.”   
  
“And we’re not the only ones. I met Pearson, he works in the general store in Rhodes, and that’s not all - he is married! Can you believe it? Tilly’s married to a lawyer and expecting a second kid, they’re living in Sait Denis. Mary-Beth writes romance novels. We did good, those of us who made the choice to do and be better.”   
  
“Good. Shows we ain’t all as bad as the Pinkertons make us out to be. Least not all the time.”   
  
“I’ll think on it. Telling them, I mean. Even now, the fewer that knows the better, but it ain't’ fair to keep some of them in the dark. Doubt even Uncle would share that information. They’re good people, they all cared about you. If I do tell them, it’ll only be the folks at the ranch.”   
  
“So what now?” Arthur asks and John realises he doesn’t know.   
  
“Hadn’t exactly thought that far.”   
  
“Then you’ll stay for the night. Tomorrow you can head down to Annesburg and take a coach or train. Blackwater ain’t exactly close and you got a woman and child waiting for you to bring them home.”   
  
John accepts, and he spends the day alternating between sharing stories with Arthur, helping Albert in the garden and Charlotte with hunting.   
  
Somehow, dinner isn’t awkward, and they all enjoy a nice evening out on the porch, looking up at the stars.   
  
\---   
  
The next day, Albert helps Arthur outside, where the man greets Buell, feeding him some more sugarcubes for the road ahead.   
  
“Take care, John, and say hi to our friends from me.”   
  
“Here,” John says, holding out the journal. “I think you should have this back.”   
  
“Nah, that’s alright. I’m long done with that part of my life, and I have a new one now, filled with happier events. Better drawings too. you take that to remember me by and go live your new life.”   
  
“Thank you, Arthur, for everything.”   
  
“And you, for accepting what happened and what could never be.”   
  
John looks to Albert and Charlotte.   
  
“Thank you, for saving his life and caring for him. And for loving him and being with him in ways I couldn’t.”   
  
“It is an honour, to be allowed to love such a man and be loved in return,” Albert says, “as I am sure you know. And for what it’s worth, he still does, in all the ways that matter, and I have never minded that. I am lucky to be by his side.”   
  
“Sap,” Arthur says, turning to kiss him.   
  
“Yes, we would both be dead if not for Arthur,” Charlotte chimes in. “Saving him in turn in the least we can do. And I have gained a family in them, brothers who love and support me and let me do as I wish, however unladylike it may seem to outsiders.”   
  
“Take care,” John says, tipping his hat at them after mounting Buell.   
  
“You too,” the trio says in unison, causing them to laugh as John turns his new horse around, setting the course for the long way home to his family and whatever awaits him.

**Author's Note:**

> This went in a wildly differend direction than I planned! It was gonna have Arthur living with Charlotte at her cabin, having lost his memory, but then Albert entered the picture and it all changed


End file.
